Mistress cellophane

You didn't notice me when I walked in the room.  That's ok, I'm used to it.  Sit down on the bed, open my computer, try to find solace in the virtual world.  You make it look oh so easy.
Remember tonight, man-boys buying me drink after drink, me insisting that I am Taken for good.  After all that, you're feet and worlds away from me here.
My stomach turns, the sick is coming-I can feel it. 

Somehow, tonight I just want to be loved.  Turn and toss-toss and turn.  Tonight I feel restless, tonight I feel wild.  Sitting there, your eyes on the screen, I could toss myself out the window and you wouldn't bother to blink.  So maybe tonight I shall do just that.

"Want anything?"  Not a murmur or mumble in response.  The kitchen is cold, I shift my weight in a ridiculous dance while I wait for the microwave to buzz it's tired finale.  Hot soup burning the taste off my tongue.  You don't glance up at my return.  I balance the soup on top of the weeks of junk on your table, standing sentinel beside your chair.  You look up, annoyed at my apparent interest.  Your expression doesn't change as the cold serrated metal slips between your ribs.  Your last moments on earth will be spent wishing you could just level your alchemy already. 

I turn, ignoring the spluttering as YOU taught me to.  If you're lucky, I will notice you in an hour.

If you're lucky.

Something you won't read.

You have four moles on your cheek that look like a constellation who's name I always forget.   
I will remember this. 
You're just tall enough that I have to stand on tip toe when I kiss your cheek.  I think too that I will remember the way you smell after you step of the shower, soft and a little musty.  I hope I don't remember how I feel tonight.

The game is on the flat screened tv behind me; every so often I turn to look at it.  Not because I'm  actually following the action, just because it seems the right thing to do.  I stare across the table, looking through the girl who is busy ticking off great aunts and second cousins on her fingers.  Instead of listening I count; hockey pictures on the wall: four, cigarette butts in her ashtray: six, people at this table:five, people that I know: zero.  I'm comfortable in anonymity.  Being a friend of a friend of a friend suits me just fine, for now. 

It's not until the talk turns to common ground that I start to flinch.  I know the stories by heart.  I know the way the ache rises in the back of my throat and how to push it down again.  Tonight is different.  Tonight they are laughing. 
"-walking in the room and pulling off the blanket...priceless expressions...begged us not to say anything but of course we were gonna give him shit."
She waves her cigarette in a lewd expression, trailing tongues of smoke.  Pinching myself under the table, I look away.

Before I can remember not to think about it I remember another bitterly cold night.  We are in the front seat of your car and I am leaning towards you, trying to avoid the old soda that has leaked through it's paper into the cup holder.  You are asking me what I would do if you told me you love me.  I am panicking in such a wonderful way.  My heart is pounding it into my chest over and over again;
He loves me
BA BOOM.
He loves me
BA BOOM.
To me, that night seemed so real.  Now I try to pinch myself out of it before I remember the next part; The way I skipped through the double doors and up the stairs to my bed where I fell asleep, hugging my pillow and still listening to the tattoo of my heart. 

A pause in the conversation-everyone looks at me expectantly.  Non-committal noises from the back of my throat and they are off again, this time comparing notes on mutually acquainted low-lives. 

I imagine their conversation a year from now.  I can see them nodding as they talk about your new fling, joking among themselves about this crazy girl who seemed to believe that she was worth a change of your heart.  This crazy girl who believed it was worth risking everything.  This crazy girl who no one has heard for in months.  This crazy girl.  But quickly the talk will turn again, and I will be a side-note in your history.  Maybe someday you will tell another curly headed girl how you once were silly enough to imagine a future with me; before quickly assuring her that she is nothing like me at all.

Tonight I sit here and think and remember and try to pretend I'm not wilting inside.  I drag the smoke into my lungs gratefully, relishing the scratch in the back of my throat.  You're somewhere miles away, not worrying about any of this. I try to bed my mind to think of nothing.

Your eyes have little flecks of gold in them that spark when you're feeling particularly devilish.
I will remember this.

PSA for the broken hearted

Darling.  Let's talk frankly.  Playing the fool doesn't suit you.  In his world, what you do or say matters even less then your ten dollar words.  You think he's everything a Man should be I suppose-the reality is that he is a man-boy at best. 
Pine away darling, because at the end of the day you are young and he will want someone with a bigger heart and a smaller mind.  I tell you this as a friend-a sister even.
Go back to your room, go back to your meal plan and your roommate and your finals.  Or don't take my advise-toss yourself ruthlessly into his path.  When he turns away, run back to the boy with the dark skin and brown eyes.  He will worship you in a way that blue eyed beauty never will.  Either way, come down to reality. 
TLAM.

Memory from a dream

The night was bitter, the serpentine cold biting at toes and nipping noses.  Once inside the dilapidated house with peeling red paint however, bodies sardine together; pink cheeks and alcohol tinged breath coloring the festivities.  Down a short set of steep stairs the base thumps and a flock of bodies swarms around a table; cheering on their compatriots as they down plastic cups filled with red and orange liquid. 

I alone am dancing, feeling the pulse of the darkness seep into my bones.  There you are, dark hair falling into your eyes.  I have never noticed the way your hair crinkles in the front before.  Charmant.  I know you feel me here.  I know that you are noticing me for the first time too.  In one move you push yourself away from the wall and somehow I find you behind me, hands on my waist and breath in my hair. 

Later we slide over frosted asphalt, ten or twelve of us talking and laughing about nothing in particular.  Tracks in the snow indicate herds of fellow revelers, all with the same destination; I can almost taste the fried cheesy sin smothered in marinara sauce.  Before I can even smell the oils from the frialator, your arm slips under my elbow and suddenly we are alone, going in the entirely wrong direction for food.  Cobblestone streets make it hard for walking in tall shoes, your arm catches my elbow as I nearly clatter my way into a snow dune.

The house when we get there is dark and smells of incense and stale wood.  Your hand is creeping towards my curves, and I am crumpling second by second.  I slide to the ground, pressing the wall into my back as an anchor to this reality.  Opening my eyes a hair I see the world curving away from me towards a coffee table and an old worn couch.  I slide to the ground, pressing the wall into my back as an anchor to life. 

Arms come into my reality.  Reaching.  Grabbing.  Lifting. 

Grey light, softness.  Mumbling white noise. 

Black.

 ****

It’s eight am according to the bells from the chapel.  I am in a room filled with haphazardly discarded men’s clothing.  I am in a room with haphazardly discarded men’s clothing, and I can’t find my underwear.  It’s not on the bed, not on the floor.  Here there is a door, and going through it I find a living room with a sad old couch and a blank wall where the television should be.  My shoes sit by a coffee table, three inches tall and caked with road salt. 

Opening the door, I step outside barefoot.  I’m home before anyone sees me.

****

The next week, my phone rings.  Addy is engaged, she is crying.  He asked her this morning.  She is laughing through her sobs, telling me how she loves this boy with dark brown hair that crinkles in the front.  I tell her she will be happy.  I tell her he will love her.  I tell her these things like they are the truth. 

You and your soul of ice

Never finished, like so many of these stories. I don't remember exactly what Ethan had done (other then break my heart) but he had done something that simultaneously made me want to cry and kill something. So I wrote.

“God bless you merry gentleman...” The girl’s breath made a soft fog in the chilly night air. The cold bit at Meredith's extremities, creeping slowly up from her toes. The harmony was drifting across the street, their black forms standing out in the street light. The door creaked open. An elderly lady standing there was beaming at them.

“For Christ our savior was born upon this day/Oh tidings of comfort and joy,” The paper in Meredithe's hand crumpled as she tried to grip it with her mittened fingers.

“Comfort and joy, oh tidings of comfort and joy!” They finished and laughed as the woman clapped.

“Wonderful! Thank you so much girls! Here, I have some treats for everyone.” A platter of warm chocolate chip cookies was passed from gloved hand to hand, everyone awkwardly picking up the soft gooey goodies.

Down the street Meredith could hear the faint sounds of two beautiful voices in perfect harmony. Why did he have to pick the same night, let alone the same street to go caroling? And where was Belle? She had said to call her. But she wasn’t picking up her cell. And Meredith really really needed to talk.

The woman waved as they thanked her for the treats, and slowly gathered back on the pavement.

“Away in a manger...” Gil’s younger brother had a better voice. She contented herself with the fact that Gil himself was slightly off pitch. But even with that, she still stewed. The worst part was not being able to tell any of the other girls here about it. They had been over for so long, months. She was supposed to not care anymore. She told everyone how much she hated him, which was true. But a part of her also loved him. No matter how much he was an ass, she couldn’t stop herself. She had confessed this only to Belle during one of their late night conversations, and couldn’t tell anyone else. If Ash found out...

“Hey, are you going to Dhar’s later?” Kat and Lizzy broke into her thoughts.

“What? Sorry.” Lizzy tweaked Meredithe's hair.

“Meredith, this is why I love you. You spend roughly 5% of the time in the real world. The rest you’re in your mind wearing pretty dresses and dazzling the men.” Meredith forced herself to smile

“What can I say? You know you love it!” The girls laughed. They were all in such high spirits, Meredith fit right in. She had once again proved her longtime theory that you will never know when the best acting is happening. Everyone was here. All of the seniors, out spending a last Christmas eve together caroling on the New Haven streets. Everyone except for Belle. She was with Fred. They had decided to spend a quiet evening alone. But he should have left by now, there was a game in the morning and he needed to rest. What was she doing? A sharp pain in her back made her look up.

“Oh no you don’t Brian! Don’t start something you can’t finish! Hold my music Angela.” She ran over to the banks of snow piled high along the sides of the street. If he was going to pack a snowball with ice, it was truly on.

Soon everyone was involved, snow and ice was flying through the air as people ran from car to car, using each other as “cover.” It soon became divided between the girls and boys, and Meredith had just cornered Brian and Dominique when she looked up to see Gil standing a little ways off talking to his brother.

WHAM!

The hard packed snow caught him completely off guard, hitting him squarely in the face. He staggered a little, looking around.

“Wha..?” Meredith gestured to the boys hiding clearly far away from where he was standing.

“Sorry. I must have missed.” She turned and walked away, to help Angela repel a barrage from Tom and Ian. That had felt so good. So so good. Smiling, she looked up to see Gil’s brother examine a growing red mark on his face. The two of them soon hurried back down the street, the spreading of Christmas cheer forgotten along with their sheet music.

Meredith wandered over to Angela and Kat. With a look over to the silhouettes down the street, she began a familiar song.

“Come and trim my Christmas tree...” the other girls joined in

“With some decorations bought at Tiffany’s,” The girls broke into choreo that they had done a few years past for a Christmas pageant. It was risqué, at best.

“I really do believe in you, lets see if you believe in me!”

Down the street, Gil saw the black forms dipping and swaying to the sound of the song. He touched his cheek, feeling the sting that Meredithe's ice packed snowball had left. But his face didn’t hurt as much as seeing her dancing there, knowing that she was probably going off to spend a cozy Christmas Eve with Ash.

“That her? I kinda recognize her.” Gil turned away, looking off down the street. His brother followed.

“Yeah. Let’s go, I’m getting cold.”

***

Meredith sat alone on the cold rock. The waves beat softly against the shore, soothing her irrational rage. Breathing slowly, she opened the notebook that Ash had given her as an early Christmas present. Stroking it’s blank pages, she began to write. She lost herself in the writing, not aware of anything but the waves and the chill slowly starting to creep up her spine.

“Meredith?” She started, she had not realized he was there. Quickly she shut the book, blushing slightly at the sentence she had just written. How long had he been standing there, watching her pour her problems onto the page?

“Hey, calm down. I won’t look. I promise, a journal isn’t much good if you let someone else see everything you’ve written.” She smiled, wishing that everyone else in the world agreed with him.

“Come on. You must be freezing. Let’s go get some hot Cocoa."

Meridith Grace Turner is not ok.

Recently I re-discovered all the stories I wrote in high school. They were stupid, really. Me and a few other close girlfriends made a soap opera out of our lives. Each of us had a character; I was Meridith (After Grey's Anatomy) my friend Sarah was Anabelle (for no reason, really) and my other friend Elan was Annie (After Annie Get Your Gun, because she is a cowgirl at heart.) For a long time I was scared to post this anywhere in case anyone who we had written into the stories discovered it, but now this all seems too long ago to matter. The events are fictional, and the people only vaguely resemble reality. Here they are in pure, unedited, high school format, in no particular order. I'll start at the end, I wrote this at the end of freshman year at Allegheny when my life was going to pieces.

Ashley Eric Grey (Mt. Desert Island High) wrote
at 2:51am
Hahaha, I'm actually up writing about psychology experiments, which is really, really fun. I'm with you; I do miss the days when you could be like, "Fuck this tonight (or for the next 2 weeks), I'm going to bed" without real consequences. Oh senioritis. I don't understand why it has bad connotations. I feel like there should be a word that means the same thing that is more positive. Seniophoria? SenioIhavebetterthingstodo? Seniorvana? It's too late and too early to have good alternatives, but I think senioritis is too negative.

Good luck with your paper.

Thanks. The blank screen is vaguely staring back at me. I want to reply with all the emotion that I have been carrying for the last few weeks, months, years. But cliché is not my style, so I will allow others to fill pages with flowery sentiments as I stare silently at this comment. I can’t seem to come to a standstill; my life has become an act of floating between classes, people, events. Nothing is solid, nothing is important. I may finish school, I may fail all of my classes. In the long scheme of things this is irrelevant. Once I thought that I had to play by the rules, do everything by the book. But where striving for “excellence” has made me a social and intellectual robot, I have lost the things that I didn’t know I needed. I have lost love to societal conventions, thought to grammar rules, myself to the rigid system of humanity. Now I’m being hypocritical, I said earlier that I wasn’t going to depend on flowery language. Well then, I’ll leave with a simplicity. Meridith Grace Turner is not ok, and there is nothing that she or anyone else can do about it.

The fairgrounds.

In the steel gray moonlight your hair spikes up the wrong way in the front, casting a shadow over your eyes. The wind is heaving and sighing every so often, chilling our bones. I pull your canvas jacket a little closer around my shoulders, centuries of patriarchy have at least given me this privilege. Together we slip through the gate and crunch slowly across the frozen gravel.

Across the midway a barn springs up out of nowhere, the wind carries the stale smell of last summers livestock to us from it's open doors. Your hand in mine is strong and reassuring and I clutch at it. My timidity is nothing but a coy mask. Alone I would skip over to play in the looming shadows, with you I shrink into a giggling mess that jumps at the sound of the stars.

"The grandstand?"
"Oh yes! But don't let go ok?"

My boots breaks the ice that has just begun to form over the muddy divits and furrows. There is nothing quiet so satisfying as snapping something brittle and newly formed. I make a point to step on every icy web, grinning at my own childish fun. You stand by indulgently, jabbing your hands into your pockets and clapping your boots against each other. I almost feel bad for taking your jacket. Almost.

When the last crunch has echoed across the grounds I finally let you take my hand again and we turn towards the Everest of steel and aluminum before us. The top row is somewhere above us, hundreds maybe thousands of steps up. Clunk! One step. Clunk! Two steps. Clunk, clunk, thunk clunk. Twenty six steps until the top of my boot doesn't hit another metal tread. Up here there are no seats, just a wide isle backed with chain link fence. We are at the top of the world and only the moon and the stars can see us. You lean in to kiss me, and when you close your eyes I keep mine open, watching your lashes flutter in the ebb and flow of the embrace. You are so fresh, and so wonderful and so new. I watch as you let the kiss die slowly on my lips, and then just before you open your eyes I push.
Clunk
Clunk
Clunk
Snap.

And another thing...

Tonight, to make it all ok, all I needed was your arms around me.

590 Days

When I close my eyes no time has passed. It's the same ache, the same confusion that I haven't felt for almost two years. Creeping down the hall-alone, hug myself and watch the minutes tick by. Again, it's my fault. Again, I'm trembling at the edge of the bed waiting to fall off. I want to do something radical and stupid to pinch myself out of this nightmare, only this time there are no mistakes left to make. This time no one will notice if I slip away, no one will care to see that I've come home. If I've come home.

Last night for a handful of minutes I felt alive for the first time in months. I was living an old dream again, and it was beautiful except that I forgot one part. The part where he rolls over and won't deign to touch me again, the part with the cutting remarks and insults that seep into my skin to be absorbed over time. And then there's the end of the dream, where I shake myself into nothing and then stare at a blank document and blinking curser. Here I am. Nothing's changed. Same dream, different man.

The worst part is, now I'm addicted to the adrenaline. I can't wait to dream again.

128

Tonight I will not write the crisp plot floating around the back of my head. Tonight I can't do crisp. Tonight is all fuzzy and blurred lines. Somehow want came into the equation long ago and things changed. What I should want, how I should want, who I should want. Want ruins things.

Tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that will all be cut out of a cookie cutter pattern. I don't have excitement, I haven't earned it or I can't handle it anymore. Better to go slowly crazy as the days drip by then create a cacophonous crash of a mess. I miss mess now, life is too clean and too expectable. I will never be happy here in this life, but I will never be that painfully unhappy either. I will spend days floating in this in between. I'm not the girl I once was, passionate and brazen and headstrong. I feel like false advertisement on those few occasions my emotions get stirred. My wings have been clipped.

One thing, at least, is true. I am sold to the first person who tells me they want me. Going, going, gone.

Someday I'll fly away.

Sleep is safe.
I think now, sleep is the only thing. Close my eyes, shut off alarms, ignore calls. This is what I do. Turtle. It works well, for a while. I can be mindless and dreamy, living in a half world.
Sleep is safe. Goodnight world.

Geometry

Life really does work in circles. A year and a half later, same questions, different person. Wonder why you were so stupid to invest everything, wonder if they will ever feel the same way, and fear that you were just as stupid and naive as everyone said.
Probably.
So now, perhaps pick life up and start again. Waiting for what goes around to come around.
Give it a couple years, I'll be right back here again.

Today was a fairy tale

Just like those guilty pleasure songs that I used to roll down my window and fling out my arm to. Something about the wind whipping through my fingers, everything around me became so alive. If I didn't known better, I would think that I had traveled back a year through time. We were still playing card games, I was still pretending to watch tv while really smiling at you playing your game. Once, only, I lost it. I saw those words and saw your hurt and I lost it, silently turning my back to the camera and letting the salt stream down. You told me I'm worth it, told me I'm pretty, told me all the things you're supposed to say. More then that, you meant them.

Day by day I get better, day by day I relearn myself. Now, I don't flinch at those heavy lace up boots and crew cut. Now, I can think about the slanted ceiling and rough smell practically, from a writer's point of view. I could still write murder, if I wanted, but the past is a tool now and no longer the cause. I hear that he's hurting, I hear that he crumbling like I did once. Used to be I waited for this day, prayed for it even. Now I feel pity, genuine pity. I hope he doesn't lose himself, I hope he wakes up to the world. It's a passing thought, gone before I even realize it's there. We live in different universes now, and everything is as it should be.

None of this makes sense, I know. It is 12:58 pm and I will be up again at six to drive myself to my thoroughly frustrating dream job. I am babbling, and it is your fault. I'm so unused to happiness, to contentment, how should I know what to do with it? I am always as voraciously happy as I am sad, it's the actress in me. You can take the girl out of the theater, love, but you can't take the theater out of the girl.

Soon I will be driving, and we will be dancing, and then we will be alone. Too soon again I will be crying and driving, then throwing myself exhausted onto clay stained sheets and pulling your hoodie close in this 106 degree weather. This fall, perhaps, things will be different. As for right now, I'm just happy. Well Miss Swift, I did it, I found somebody today who actually will treat me well.

Postscript- I'm back again. I'm not even sure you knew I was gone, but you're right you know. I can't give this up, it's who I am.

Exeunt

Mama. I don’t know why you have to make everything so difficult. I look at having this baby as the opportunity of a lifetime. Sure, there may be some risk involved. That’s true for anybody. But you get through it and life goes on. And when it’s all said and done there’ll be a piece of immortality with Jackson’s looks and my sense of style…I hope. Mama, please. I need your support. I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.

That was my thirty minutes of wonderful. For the first, and probably only, time in my life I was a heroine. Yes, there was teased hair and awful high wasted 80's jeans and a horrid wig. But for once I wasn't a chorus girl, and when I died, people cried. I spent my whole life wanting that, and I will probably spend my whole live reliving those few moments. As time goes by I will forget the nights that we did our lines in circles, the nights we wanted to kill our fellow cast members, the nights we caused the director to want to go into early retirement. I will remember the smell of fancy face paint and hairspray, how hot that vest was under the lights, how that one night everything just slipped perfectly into place.
I have spent seven years now learning that I am not an actress, and I will spend fifty more at this rate. But, as the years pass me, so will the roles. Too late for Juliet now, and soon too late for Shelby too. Desdemona, my favorite, has maybe two years left. I am getting too old for the heroine, people get dried up faster in this business then in any other one in the world. So, through high school college, a job...somehow I still read these lines, hug my pillow, and cry.

What can I say. The stage is a fickle mistress.

Truth

You're still the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.

Girl code

Ladies, I know you'll agree with me on this. We women have this horrible tendency to betray, hurt, and spite each other. The wonderful terrible high we get from it is kind of addicting. But there is a better feeling even then this. You know those girls that have betrayed you? The one that stole your boyfriend, the one that spilled your confidences, the one that grabbed that guy before you could even smile? A year or two later, perhaps more, you happen across a picture of their new man. He's ugly as hell. And then, you think to yourself, "Karma's a bitch, and so are you."

Hey, I'm just saying the thing that we all think.

My own Jane Austen Novel

Three or four years past now, I attend my first country dance. I was staying a group of other young gentlemen and ladies at the time, and we traveled just outside the town we were staying in to a little inn. The entire evening was magical; it started to rain just before we reached our destination and stepping out of our vehicle the young gentlemen held umbrellas and jackets over our heads with not regard for their own personal comfort. At that young age, it was positively the most romantic thing that had ever happened to me. The dancing was stately and elegant, but with plenty of time for giggles and youthful exuberance between steps. Leaving, I thought this was surely something I would make a habit of.

Over the next year I tried in vain to find another country dance. It wasn't until I entered school in a small town in Pennsylvania that I found anything remotely similar in style or nature. It was at this school that I discovered Contra dancing, a derivation of the more formal country dances. Every week I went, somehow when the gentlemen swung me I could smile and everyone would forget to be too grown up to break out in laughter. Months I went, all through the fall and winter. Then, come spring, a young man I had never seen before entered the class.

I noticed him right away, he was standing to one side of the table looking confused. I won't deny he was handsome, and when the instructor charged me with teaching him the steps I blushed at my good fortune. At the closing waltz he again asked for my hand. "Let me teach you something new;" he smiled and before I knew it we were flying over the floor in a ballroom sashay. He came back again and again, and an attachment slowly began to form.

Then came the summer months, we exchanged short correspondences, but his time training for the army kept us from having anything more then a quick message here and there. But surely, the next fall, we would pick off just where we had left off. And we did. Except that now things were blurred, there were rumors and the idea of another girl. Over the summer he had led me to believe that she was of no matter, an old attachment, but now I came to understand that she was much more.

Then came the party. It was an all day affair, starting with a picnic lunch and lasting into the evening with dancing and plenty of refreshments. A close friend and I grew tired in the late afternoon; we wanted to nap and discuss all the things close female companions like to talk about, namely whether or not my young man was worth believing. Luckily for us that afternoon, and luckily especially for me, one young man offered his room for our convince. He stayed with us, and though at the time I thought it to be a bit of an annoyance, he intrigued me slightly. He was quite good looking and though I had been to that house many times before, I didn't recall really seeing him but for a couple of times. I must have made an impression because after that evening he kept after me.

He seemed like a genuine courteous young man, something hard to come by in today's world. What perhaps intrigued me even more though were the rumors of his illicit past. He was one of the dark characters from one of my novels, A Rhett Butler come to sweep me off my feet and carry me away. And yet, I refused to be swept so easily. As things with the first young man fell apart, I nursed my heartache and began to see all the good things that made the second one different. He held my hand while I cried, he told me the bold truth whatever the cost to him. His eyes had a devious glint in them, but he looked at me as no one ever had before.

We started going on walks, long walks, after nightfall down long deserted roads. He was always careful to keep me on the inside safe from danger of any passing traffic, he held my hand and together we counted the stars. Those nights I lost myself in the mischievous glimmer of his eye, and the warm safety of his hand. Though my heart had been nearly broken when we first found each other, he stayed by my side and taught me all the reasons why I was worthy of love.

It has almost been two years since that party, and tonight I found myself back at the little inn dancing country dances. The music and the dances and the people were all the same. I laughed and talked and gossiped, but at the end of the dance I realized the romance I had felt years ago wasn't there anymore. I had left it behind in Pennsylvania, with my very own Mr. Darcey

Middle Plantation and Romance

I never thought I would give up an accurately recreated pair of stays for one hot sticky day at the beach in a 21st century bathing suit. All of a sudden, I can't even get excited about bustles anymore. Pleats and under-petticoats and hoops are all worthless in comparison to brown eyes and a jeep that perpetually smells a little like fast food.

What's happened to me, a year and a half ago I wouldn't have recognized myself today.

I used to be in love with fashion, with history, with hopeless romance and intrigue.

Now I'm in love with a man.

One man.

What's more, I think he's worth it.

Birthdays

This morning I will have apple pie for breakfast. I don't care, it's the last day that I'm twenty so I'm going to act childish. I should probably be more excited for tomorrow. I should be texting friends and planning drinks and bars and outfits. But here, there are no friends, so I sigh and wait as the minutes tick by.
Instead of thinking about the relentlessness of time, I'm going to have apple pie.
Bring it, time.

An Understanding

"Try Burnt Sienna. Hi, sorry. You're Anna, right?"
"Yeah, hey thanks. I'm always so chicken when I dye my hair; I always end up either a tiny bit redder or a tiny bit darker, but I think I'm the only one who even really notices the difference. Sorry, I didn't catch you're name...?
"Emma... Boudreau."
"Oh. So I guess you already kinda knew who I was then. I didn't think you were back yet."
"I just got in. I'm just getting some things before heading back to campus."
"Look, I'm really sorry. I mean, if I was you I would hate me. I didn't know, I mean I did know but he didn't really tell me-"
"No. It's ok. We had an understanding and I went away and here we are now. Just, I'm glad it was only you and not a whole bunch of random girls. You seem nice."
"Only me...yeah. Well- I should probably go. I have a paper to write and a meeting later-"
"There doesn't have to be any problem you know. I mean, as long as you don't try to keep on- I don't hate you for what you did."
"Yeah. I won't try anything. It's not my place. You won't even know I'm around, I promise."
"Don't you live down the hall?"
"Yeah, but I don't get out much. I'm sorry, but I really have to go. It was nice meeting you."
"You too. See you around."
"Yeah, I'll see you."
"Anna? I know how it feels when he lies to you. I mean, if you ever need to talk about all of this..."
"You want to talk to me about it? You don't think that's weird? You don't want to hear what I have to say anyway. You don't want to hear what he told me."
"I can only imagine. But I don't hate you."
"Well thank you. It's more then I deserve."
"It's probably not. But anyway. Good luck with the hair dye.”

Fear

Let me make a list of things that scare me. At least then they'll all be neatly gathered in one place.

~Heights. Not the "I can't climb that ladder, I'm scared of heights," indeed I spent much of my childhood clambering on catwalks 20 feet in the air. But one time I was at the top of the Statue of Liberty, we had climbed hundreds of stairs in a line that streachted on for hours. When we got to the top there was one tired security guard (this was before planes started flying into buildings) and he hustled me onto a thin plywood platform. My hand pressed against the tiny window, I could see the whole New York skyline streatched below and before me. In that second I knew two things: There is something about that city that I will always love, and I couldn't have my feet on firm ground soon enough.
~Suspense. When I was eight or nine I went through a phase of not being able to watch any new movies. My little five year old brother scoffed at me, but when my dad would bring home two or three movies I would beg to watch only five minutes of each at a time so that I could find out which one was the least scary. Blood and gore didn't bother me, it grossed me out but I could always make some sarcastic comment about make up artists or special effects. It was that shot from behind that always killed me, the one where you could just see the character and had to wonder if something was about to jump out at them and from where. Now I challenge myself to try to outdo my fear; grabbing my pillow, turning on the light, but forcing myself to watch.
~Cars. Or rather, car accidents. Ever since I woke up in that ambulance, sharp turns and hard brakes have made me forget to breath. Sometimes I think remembering everything would help...but most of the time I'm just grateful that I don't have to.
~Failing. No one really wants to fail, but I seem to have a real talent for screwing things up. Somehow, just when things get good I manage to make one huge mistake and that's it. I know I'm not the sort to really make people proud, but for once I want to not be part of the problem.
~Losing him. My little brother I mean. Because no matter what, he's all I have in the world, the only person who's not allowed to leave me. He doesn't get mad when I tell him I love him, we can go for weeks without talking and then have things be just like normal. I know he doesn't need me to protect him anymore, but somehow I have to try. In the end, he's really the one protecting me. I know there is nothing in the world I wouldn't do for him.

Through the cracks

Tomorrow I'm just going to be a memory, I think.
I'll slip away, into that dark part of the brain that is reserved for the things no one wants to think about. I've lost, I suppose. Some people win and then there are other people too. If one person, any person would notice me drowning that would be something at least. But I won't burden you or anyone else. Especially not you. You told me yourself, you don't know how to deal with this. You shut down. So maybe it's better I don't make you think about it anymore. You can be free of all of this, easily.
And tomorrow, I'll be a memory.

Year One

Nights like these make me beg for punishment. Let me pull out old snapshots, let me read the old conversations that are intrinsically bad for me. Let my pull my hair down and let the tears roll awkwardly around my nose to my lips. The salty taste reminds me of those nights, one year ago. Those horribly wonderful nights, delicious sin promising me a world of pain and love.
I wonder if he's thinking about me, sometimes.
Wonder if he ever remembers what happened, wonder if he ever imagines things differently. He wouldn't, it's not his style. Live in the moment, forget regrets. That's what he told everyone anyway. I knew differently.
I can't answer when you call now, can't pretend to be happy anymore. You won't believe me anyway.
So here I am. Punishing myself.
Picture after picture.
Make it hurt.

Responsibility

I love you so much it hurts.
How can I make you believe me?
This is totally and completely my fault.
I went and ruined a perfect idea with selfishness.
I have to believe that some year, next year, I will get another chance at perfect.
Next time I promise I won't mess up.
Next time I'll be with you.

Sunshine

Hey there boy. You smile and then here-comes-the-sun. So smile already.
It's rainy and gray here; and all I want is to put my short shorts on and go flop by a lake. I'm sick of life being shades of gray and so let's run away together and make it technicolor.
You're my "thirty seconds of wonderful in a lifetime of nothing special" that I have been looking for ever since I said those words to a packed house.
Sometimes I think I feel your ghost; someone brushes past me in a packed student union and I smell your jacket and almost spin and grab them by the sleeve. Looking behind me they turn into a solid stranger and I am left with a moment of starry cold memory. Tonight I'll listen to you falling asleep on the phone and I'll grin at the memory of you lying next to me, quietly happy. And then I'll smile, thinking of you.
Smile.
Ok?

Longing

Written almost exactly one year ago. Funny how some thoughts never change.

And all year she fought and kicked and screamed internally, because this was not what she
wanted, nothing was RIGHT. And she knew that eventually she would be worn down, and if this happened too soon she would lose everything. And none of them were right, nothing was right, and she wanted to take the notes and the flowers and the wine and throw it all on the floor. And then she could stomp on the broken glass; the wine would turn the paper a pretty burgundy color and the words would disappear.

And then one night she went for a walk. It was a risk, but it was honestly her last hope. She couldn't play games anymore, couldn't think like the cat or the mouse, just wanted it all to stop. But he asked her what she was doing, she said a walk probably, he asked if she wanted company, she said ok.

And they met halfway, and her boots clunked and her fingers froze shoved deep in her pockets. And then he said something that made her laugh, and she tugged his sleeve and for the first time looked into his eyes. Now they were standing in the middle of the road staring at each other and he was looking, actually seeing her. The rest of the world was in black and white and all of a sudden he was color. Time and stars passed and he took her hand and things were settling into right and good. And then right before civilization began she made some lame excuse and took her hand back, it was still hers and she didn't trust yet.

Her brain was waking up and it was fighting. The people who claimed to be her friends were full of warnings, and she had no one else to trust after all. And who was he to make her feel like that, who was he to make her want to throw everything else away? What right did he have? So she locked those feelings up somewhere in the back of her mind, only entertaining them on their long night sojourns. And time passed and so did prejudices, to be replaced with fears. Fears of making a mess out of a good thing, fears of being left alone, fears that all of this was yet another game.

And the walks increased, and so did that secret part of her that knew she was falling. And one night, one night she tugged his sleeve and again he was looking at her, and seeing her. And when they kissed that night, standing in the middle of the road, her life remained complicated. And she had mistakes left to make, and still on their return she pulled her hand back to herself. But that kiss, that one moment left her knowing that she could fight all she wanted but this was right.

And now she is here, and he is there, and she is closing her eyes tight and then again she is freezing on that road. There is snow and ice and her hands are closed on his heavy jacket. His eyes are lit by the lamp and they are seeing each other. There are stars, some tonight, but right now they are dim and distant because this is bliss.

And she is closing her eyes and she is there.

Chasing ghosts

The other day she chased me down in a dream. I tried to run but wasn't fast enough, and before I knew it she was upon me. I'm sorry she said, her breath smooth and even as I wiped sweat out of my eyes. You'll just never understand what we have. I'm sorry to take him back but he never really was yours in the first place. You understand. I tried to argue but the words stuck and before I knew it she turned to leave and I was watching her perfect form disappear. My dream self tried to reason it out, thinking of all the presents in the world I could give her to ransom you back. Panic rising my eyes snap open and I discover you beside me, your slightly parted lips and chest rising evenly.

Alone I turn over and throw my arms over myself, holding myself tight and squeezing my eyes shut. I know that I will wake in the morning with your arms around me, that you and I will kiss despite morning breath and that we will revel in our bliss of dirty t-shirts and sweatpants. But somehow before I can shut my mind off I see that perfect form again and I wonder.

Cheating again.

One word, imported from another place.
How?

Too late

I'm on a plane and I'm going to die. There are only a few of us here, seven or eight. We're gathered in the front of the cabin leaving all the seats behind us empty, I sit alone in my row and looking around I realize I'm the furthest back. In front of my are my mom and my brother, and I think they're crying. I know I am.
"Mommy, Mama I don't want to die. Mama please don't make this be happening, make it go away!"
"I know honey, I know, shhhh."
She squeezes the hand that I snake around the seat but the terror in her voice equals my own. My brother is silent, he sits eyes forward to the front of the cabin. The others here are half crying, half silent. Through my daze I see a middle aged woman going through hysterics while her husband sits silently by, face unmoving.
Looking down I find my phone on my lap. We're going to die anyway, in flight procedure be damned. Tapping the speed dial I get nothing at first, then finally one shaky bar. Maybe not enough to be heard, but enough to try. I don't even wait for an answer, I just clutch it to my face and sob in a half whisper.
"I love you Jon, I love you I love you I love you..."
Mom still grips my hand. Seconds left to say the things I thought I had a lifetime to say.
Seconds left.

Life is better vicariously though musicals.

It feels like cheating having another place to ramble.
Dirty cheating.
So here's to being faithful.
This morning turned so frustrating and scary. Go back and come again another day, please.

Here's to a Broadway show or two to get me through today.

Suffragette 2010

Tell me where I messed up. I want to know, what went wrong?
It's my mind isn't it, damn independent thoughts. Nothing a butcher's knife can't cure. Let's carve my brain out and let it land with a satisfying plop on the floor beside me. Then I will be docile, then I will do just what I'm told. But these lips, they must also be punished for whispered defiance. scratch them off my face, peel them away so my teeth are left bare and accountable for their chatterings. Leave only my body for that alone has not yet offended.
I will be your brainless, lip-less servant. I will fetch and carry and sit and stand and kneel for you. I will nod mutely when you tell me I'm worthless and stare blankly at the wall when you strike out in frustration.
I am your diversion.
When things go wrong, it's because of me.
I shouldn't have been thinking in the first place.

Valentine's Day

There is a beautiful moment that's frozen in time.
There we are on the bed, your arms thrown around and under me; you're pulling me close close close until I can't breath, each slow draw soaks in your essence. In my mind I realize that I will look back on this nano second with longing, but right now I just feel your breath tickling the wisps of hair on my neck.
This must be happiness.
It's not unbridled enough to be ecstasy, doesn't have the wild quality of passion; this is the comfortable love that thrives on frozen chicken nuggets and flat pop. This is the kind of thing you build a life around.
But none of that matters, because for the first time in months, I have a moment of just-
Happiness.

The begining of everything: MDIHS '07

Sometimes I wish that I could see people. I mean really see them, not just their clothes and expressions, but them. Like a x-ray of their thoughts, from their most frivolous desires to their greatest fears. Because people, when you think about them, are so much more complicated then they seem. There are so many layers to cut through before you can even get close to understanding, to discovering The Truth. But maybe it’s a good thing that there are so many layers between the human eye and the real truth about someone, because if you could see people, I mean really see them, what would the world look like?

******************

Tick, tick, tick. Meredith felt her small frame slide slowly down in her seat. “We love Chemistry, that atoms are our friends...” The words rang ironically through her mind. This class was the reason God invented notes. And boys. She flipped languidly through the leaves of her notebook. Many days of silent pleasure had been procured from these lined pages.

Finding the correct page, she paused, running her pen down an ever growing list of names. Her symbol, a heart, was scattered across the paper along with the stars and diamonds of her friends, marking those of the male gender who they found acceptable. Some had additional notes beside their names. Brian had laughed when he had found the book and read “Absolutely adorable!” beside his name. But who to mark today? And who was left to write down? The only guys she would really consider had been added in the first couple of days. Seniors perhaps...? Marking off some names and writing down a few of her own, Meredith passed the book on.

Paris accepted it into her long fake nails complete with a french manicure. She turned the book over, glanced at the names, starred most of them and added one of her own. The third girl then accepted the offered book. Ahhh Annabelle. With her tiny clothes and perpetually peppy attitude, she seemed at first glance the opposite of rather conservative Meredith. But being lab partners and sharing notes had begun an interesting friendship between the two of them. In fact, they shared more then just friendship. They both had an interest in a certain Ashley (who preferred the more masculine and simple Ash.) Annabelle had actually dated him the previous year, but the summer spent apart had forestalled the relationship. Annabelle had no idea Meredith had any interest in the resulting fall out, other then as a friend from whom to extract advice. But Meredith never mentioned her ulterior interest in the situation, because that would have put her friend in a very compromising situation. Friends before boys. Still.....Meridith sighed, unconscious of the fact that she was staring into the distance as wistfully as any of the heroin's in the novels that she was forever reading.

“Meriii-diiith...” A girl with straight-ish dirty blond hair and amazingly tall gold shoes leaned over to whisper.

“Are you thinking about a certain....someone?”

“Andrea!” Meredith hissed. Andrea knew, as did most of Meredith's friends of her feelings about the Annabelle-Ash connection. Trying to ignore the mischievous teasing look in her friends eyes, Meredith quickly turned back to face the front of the room. Just to have something to do, other then think about her dismal lack of a love life, she gave Annabelle’s hair a quick pull.

“Ow, what was that for?”

“You were taking too long! Come on, I know that you can add a few names from your long list of boys.”

“Fine! give me a minute!” Annabelle pretended to pout, but Meredith knew she was secretly happy of her prodding. Finally receiving the notebook again, she quickly noted the names. Ian Ken Fred Tom. Ian was straight as a line, an A student destined to be the class valedictorian. He was cute, in a puppy dog way, but had a sense of humor that was sometimes very unusual. Ken was the all American boy. Gorgeous in a tall blond muscular way, his only cons were his inclination to drink too much with friends and end up doing extremely stupid things, and his habit of not quiet telling the truth. Tom was widely admired, though Meredith felt no personal attraction, but Fred? What could Annabelle see in him? Maybe it was just the fact that she could not look at him without seeing a geeky and awkward sixth grader, because although Meredith found him both funny and nice, she simply could not see him as downright attractive. To other girls maybe, but to her, well, he simply was no Ash. Wait, Ash...Annabelle, and now Fred? Trying to seem nonchalant and hide the somersaults her stomach was doing, well, more like a three ring circus complete with dancing bear, Meredith tried to pull herself together enough to casually ask,

“Fred? Really Annabelle?”

“Yes Fred. He’s in my English class. He’s gotten cuter over the summer, he even has a better sense of style. Did you see what he had on for game day last week?” Paris chimed in with some comment or other, but Meredith wasn’t listening.

“Does this mean it’s over? What if Annabelle isn’t Fred’s type. He’s pretty close to that senior, Lucy anyway. But if it does work out....I’ve talked with Ash lots of times after school. He’s not exactly in love with her anymore. But the two of us are so different, if he liked her what are the chances he could like me?

Paris and Annabelle had obviously continued the conversation, and the last comment had been directed at her.

“I guess you guys are right. He is more put together, but he’s still not my type.” Andrea had heard the last comment, and chimed in to offer her confirmation that Fred had, indeed, changed, and was now considered a hot prospect among many junior girls, including herself. Time to steer the conversation out of dangerous waters.

“Ken is SO gorgeous!” Almost falling out of her seat, Meredith succeeded in turning the conversation towards someone they could all agree on.

“Oh Meredith don’t fuss like that.” Annabelle intoned “I know that Ken is hotter then practically any other guy in our class, but cmon. I’ve known the kid my whole life and he eats girls like you for breakfast.” Paris fiddled with a piece of paper, assuming her fake-sexy voice.

“I wouldn’t mind waking up next to him!”

“You have a boyfriend!” Meredith exclaimed with feigned surprise. Not that she wouldn’t put it past a Paris with no active sex life. Unfortunately for everyone in the row, Paris had a VERY active sex life. They all knew many more details about it then any of them could have wished. Paris didn’t seem to get the sarcasm.

“I’d still do Ken. Jim would understand.” Meridith glanced back at the paper.

“Ian is cute, but it would probably never work.” Paris gave Meredith her “oh please” look.

“Go for it. Be a slut for once in your life.” Meredith looked away.

“Thanks but no thanks, Paris.” Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. Turning the conversation to what was really on her mind, she tried to be casual as she asked,

“So what’s been going on between you an Ash lately, Belle?” Immediately Paris and Andrea, who were both in on her dirty secret, exchanged a look an burst into fits of silent giggles. Shooting them a look to kill, Meredith tried her best to keep her composure.

“I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what he wants. I miss talking to him. I think he still likes me but I just don’t know. I need a new boy.” Meredith's heart soared at these words.

“I think you should get a different guy.” Andrea chimed in with a quick glance to see how these words were affecting her friend. “Haven't you tortured Ash enough?”

“Whatever. She can have any guy she wants. She doesn't have to stop torturing him if she doesn't want too.”

“Fine!” Leave it to Paris to kill a conversation.

“Oh well. At least I might have a chance. Someday. Over the rainbow....” As usual, a song from a random musical play erupted in Meredith's head just as the bell rang. Much as she loved her friends, she was not sad that class was over. She had to pass a certain locker in order to get her money out of her bag...And a certain somebody might just be getting out of Spanish class to go get his snack.

*****************

An honors student. A rich daddy’s girl. A peppy cheerleader. A unique blond. These people you have seen, heard, read about all your life. Close your eyes and you can see them, right down to the fine print on the Jane Austen novel that the prep is sure to be carrying. You think you know them. But really, when you strip away everything, the hair, the earrings, the textbooks. All you find is Truth. The honors student hates her life, she can’t ever be the rock singer that she imagined herself to become when she was little. She can’t even carry a tune. The daddy’s girl would really rather spend time then money. She wants someone who will like her for her talents, not her beauty. The cheerleader wants to become a writer. She’s not sure she likes having a new addition to the family, either. Deep down the blond wants to not be the one who is jokingly referred to as a ditz. Do any of the others truly understand what it’s like to lose a friend of only fifteen years? If you go on a search for the Truth, you may find it. So just be prepared, for mostly it’s the last thing you would expect.

Star light, star bright.

Alone, tonight, I see the stars.
Sometimes I talk to them, imagining they whisper back to me through the trees. They know all my secretes, those bright points. In the lonely night I tell them how I love and how I hate- all of my sins are laid bare to this supreme confessor.
There are days when I slip away to play in the fallen temples of my own personal what ifs. I run through the city and dance on shiny black stages and in the end I collapse in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Most of all on these nights I am not alone. My star friends take on faces and we giggle together and I am no longer alone.
Then something wakes me up. Someone calls and they talk about the Real World and I am dragged back, kicking and screaming and cursing.
Tomorrow I'll close my eyes again and the stars will come out and I won't be alone.

On Censorship

There are some things perhaps better left unsaid. But then, I promised myself once that I wasn't going to bend, I wasn't going to change anything for anyone. So here is the truth, the whole (partial) truth.

"You wouldn't look at someone like that if you didn't actually like them. You care a lot about me, why don't you just admit it?" He made it too easy, they all made it too easy...practiced words slipping off her tongue and forming meaningless sentences that appeased. Meanwhile, her mind traveling at warped speed, realizing and rationalizing. Meridith was cold this night. And who's to say that she did not deserve to be cozy? It's not like he wasn't enjoying himself...if he wanted more he had a phone full of names he could try. She knew this, and somehow it made her feel better. Being used was infinitely easier then using people.

Admittedly written years ago, decades it seems. In time my mind has altered these things, changed them and made them somehow perfect; flawless. And these cold lonely nights I re-read and remember emotion. I make no apologies. Now, full circle. I'm back to screaming into pillows. And I can't write a damned thing that's real.

Delight

There is nothing left to do but love you like you deserve. Someday I'll be able to write the happy as well as I write the morose, and then I'll show you. Until that day just know that I

unequivocally

limitlessly

and

emphatically love you.

Waiting

I'm imagining all the things that could have happened.

A crash,

A fight,

Anything and everything that could cause me to lose you on some twisting turning back road.

And then I would be begging for money, if only to see you one last time. Flying away for the very last time. Trying to understand everything, and understanding nothing at all.

And I would kiss you, the sting of formaldehyde taking away the sweet sensations of memories.

Black is not my color. So please please please.

Come home tonight.

Home Alone

Tonight I'm home alone. Somewhere someone is making you laugh, making your eyes spark bright in that brilliantly beautiful way. I sip my tea and imagine the taste of your lips, soured by beer.

I remember the days when we were young and stupid and you would take me in your arms and the world would screech to a stop. You taught me so much in those hot dark hours, and then sometimes we would stop breathing and let life go. One night I looked in your eyes and I knew somehow that you would be with me forever, long after I scuttled out the door and down the hall in the early morning light.

Somewhere a girl is looking at you and wondering who you are. Your easy smile is intoxicating, women want to drown in it; I drowned in it. Sliding off your seat you will flip a comment back and make people laugh. Once those comments were directed at me; I would bush past you and flick my hair so the mix of my perfume and shampoo would tantalize you. I haven't showered in days now, I pull my hair back into a sensible poof that explodes at the back of my head.

Once I was exciting and fresh.

Here I am, black and white and two dimensional. Why would anyone want this when they can have beautiful, vibrant color?

So tonight, I'm home alone.

Running away

A part of me is ready to walk away.

I'm good at that, when the going gets rough I turn tail and flee.

I want to sleep through tomorrow, never seeing the light of day.

I want to throw my things haphazardly in my trunk and go

go

go.

Maybe when I see you you'll be mad. You'll get sour and displeased that I threw so much away with both hands. You'll look at me with those deep wonderful browns and you'll sigh and finally take me into your arms.

I want to go.

In five years, ten years, it will all be the same. Who needs a Higher Education to work retail, anyway. Who needs any of this? Without another being to share existence with life is pointless. We will be uncomfortably happy, but that is better then comfortably bitter. And there will be a dog and two cats (yes, I will win that argument) and a few messy children to add volume to life. And I will look back on today and perhaps I will sigh at the illusions of youth, but I will know I chose correctly.

I want to go.

My secret is my suitcase, still packed. I refuse to redistribute the articles inside to a room which feels nothing like home. Cliche or not, my home is with my heart and you are currently my heart's keeper. So it's there, a little bent and beaten and waiting for any excuse I can come up with to fly.

I want to go.

And then I remember your voice, telling me no. Telling me I have to do this, I have to be here now. And I wonder; if I go will you welcome me? Will you smile and tell me you love me? Or will you turn away and point a finger back north.

I want to go.

Here I stay.

Deja Vu

Things discovered in the cracked white plastic of my personal time machine; an old laptop computer. I thought I knew everything. Turns out I knew nothing at all. And when exactly did I think attempting poetry at 3 am was a good idea?

From Erin
This is what I think: I think that we are pretty enough,
& likable enough…
and if even that’s not enough to win
by coloring within the lines- then
we’re smart enough
that we should be able to figure out how
to cheat this whole game!
So, where are the boys?
Where have all the cowboys
gone? Where is My
John Wayne?
Where is my
prairie son?
I’ll do the dishes,
if you pay all
the bills.

Sneaking
Awkward limbs
cramped into a twin bed,
arms tucked beneath stomachs
thrown over backs
legs tangled in sheets.
Existing separately,
Side by side.
Turning,
A stroking finger finds a
Back
Leg
Chest.
Hands sweep hair aside
From the neck
Hot air against a cool ear.
Mouths pressing
Almost painfully
Searching for something
Lacking in this existence…
Hours.
Two,
Three,
Six.
Dimly aware of sunlight creeping in
Through dirty windows
And half drawn blinds.
Gathering clothes-
Searching in the half-light.
A parting squeeze
And creeping down a hall
Stairs
Back to a room-
A roommate.
Wondering when,
Exactly,
This is the person that you became.
I became.

Home Life
Wind
Spray
Ocean
Hair in disarray
True feelings
True life.
Now,
Halogen lights
Razor burn in shared showers
Upstairs,
Sneaking home
2 am.
This is not love.
Life here,
Made of cardboard.
Love exists
Without shame
Without fear
And I have
Fallen
Out of it.

Warning
You told me
Many times in fact,
You warned me fully.
Of my own encouragement I continued.
And now I have fallen
Fallen
Fallen
And still I blame you.
Wolf in sheep’s discarded garments
(aware of that cliché)
To catch me through such means.
I hope my veal is as succulent as it is painful-
My bleats are silenced nightly
In my pillow.

3 am
Coffee is warm and forgotten-
Papers creep across the table
Slyly trying to lose themselves among the chaos
A computer,
Open,
Lingers nearby on the desk.

Please?

I miss you.

Come home to me?

Broken

It's four am and I can't breath. It's too late or too early- you are asleep as you should be. The moon is in my soul and I'm restless. A year ago I wanted this, and while you found ecstasy I left wet imprints on my pillow. I love you I love you I love you. So why am I sitting on a crumbling staircase in my oversized jacket and my bare feet? My darling, please believe me. I love you so much it hurts. But I'm restless and crazy. Maybe it's just the full moon and the jazz in my soul; or maybe it's me.
For my part I'm sorry that I put you through this. I will fix it, someday.
I'm sorry I'm broken.